


tomorrow

by orphan_account



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Connor has terrible coping skills, ConnorKawaii's follower headcanons, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Spoilers, Thoughts of Self-harm, Thoughts of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor is tired. Of everything.</p><p>[Endgame spoilers]</p><p>Korean translation here, by the lovely bearygirl510: http://blog.naver.com/yuffie510/60190439110</p>
            </blockquote>





	tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [connorkawaii](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=connorkawaii).



> This is my last procrastination piece until the next chapter of long-term loss. I promise.
> 
> See this tumblr post for more details, like the headcanons that inspired this: http://sittingroundthesamovar.tumblr.com/post/47634026143/tomorrow

When Connor sees the empty, overgrown village, he wants to scream. There are no words to describe what he feels. His home is gone, what little family he had left have fled. Everything he has done over the past decade has been so that his people can have a better tomorrow, that their way of life will not be swallowed by the colonists, that peace between two very different cultures is possible. 

They left without telling him, and he supposes that he can understand: it is his fault Kanen’tó:kon is dead. It is his fault, for trusting Washington (the man who killed his mother the bastard his mother how could he) to do the right thing and leave innocents out of the war.

He lies down for a while, curled in the space he used to sleep in as a child. The rage is an ice-cold heaviness in his belly, a hot stinging in his eyes. He tries to imagine— just for a minute please just for one minute— that nothing is wrong and it’s just an eerily quiet afternoon.

* * *

 

After burying Achilles, Connor doesn’t know what to do. The pain in his side is a constant reminder of what he’s lost and what he has not gained. 

Sometimes, when writing letters to his recruits— no, no, they’re not recruits any more, are they? They’re full-fledged assassins— he finds himself wanting to shout and punch the walls until his fists bleed because he should be doing those things, he is not even twenty-five and he is reduced to hobbling around like… like…

Like Achilles.

He waits until he can see clearly again before putting the tear-stained papers to one side and beginning a clean draft.

* * *

 

Prudence and Ellen bring their children over often, though never at the same time. He thinks it might be because they’ve noticed how thin he’s getting— he’s still bulkier, more solid, stronger than the average man on the street, but skinnier than he’s been since he was a teenager— and how dark the circles under his eyes are.

Connor obliges them, and lets them fuss over him and redo the chores he already did earlier, while he teaches the children how to speak his language and lets them climb everything. 

He wishes he could teach them more. He can feel his mother tongue shrivel and wither in his mouth with nobody to speak properly to with it aside himself. The memories of their ceremonies and legends are faded in his mind; he can remember the basics, but it’s harder to remember the details than it used to be and he’s terrified of the day he will cast his mind back and remember nothing of his culture.

* * *

 

Connor stands on the cliff edge one day, where he once told Achilles that William Johnson was still alive, and wonders what it might feel like to let himself fall forward. Much like a leap of faith, he supposes, but with a brief moment of mind-numbing agony at the end. Or perhaps the agony would last a few minutes if he misjudged and drowned instead. 

Later, he is ashamed at how tempting it was. How much he honestly wanted to do it. 

* * *

 

It all comes to a head one evening when Connor can’t seem to cut the leeks he’s going to have in his supper properly. He’s good with knives. How can he be so clumsy? Achilles would’ve rolled his eyes at that attempt. Mother would have scolded him and done it herself. Haytham would have cackled. 

Stupid! Useless, waste-of-space  _cripple_!

He flings the knife down and pounds the table with his fist. It hurts but it feels good, the way his skin goes momentarily numb and the jolt runs through his shoulder. 

He finds himself shouting, cursing in every language he knows, dredging up all the words he can think of to express what this sick, empty feeling is like and the unfairness that has been his entire  _fucking_ life and he screams until his voice is hoarse and only when his voice starts to give out entirely does he stop and try to breathe again.

Someone clears their throat from the back door.

“Er, sir…? Are you all right?” 

It’s Clipper. How could he have forgotten that he was coming over? He wants to scream all over again. 

“Yes,” he croaks, after a moment. Clipper merely nods at him, in an irritatingly disbelieving way. Connor realises after a moment that this is because there are wet tear trails on his cheeks, salt water still dripping from his jaw.

“I could help you, if you’d like,” Clipper offers, kindly. Connor wants to say yes. He wants to refuse. 

“It is fine,” he murmurs. “It was for tomorrow. I already ate earlier.”

* * *

 

The sailors of the Aquila come along a day after the embarrassing spectacle Clipper witnessed, and drag him to Oliver and Corrine’s inn. They insist on celebrating his ‘unbirthday’, and sing lots of bawdy songs at him until he sighs and sips at the ale they put in front of him. 

“Your hair’s growin’ back mighty fine sir,” the navigator says. He hands Connor a blue silk ribbon, with white lace. “Here.”

Faulkner tells him about the journeys the Aquila has made since Connor was injured. 

“…So there we were, thinkin’ we was goin’ to have to go all the way back, but it turned out the Marquis had the wrong coat on. He’d left it in the other pocket. Not as interestin’ as the adventures we usually have, Captain, but… when you’re feelin’ better we’ll go on a proper hunt. Think we found a map belongin’ to yer grandfather, Edward Kenway, you said?”

Connor nods an affirmative. He ought to have known the man. He’s read his father’s journals, he knows that Haytham should have been an Assassin, he knows that if fate had worked differently, he might be living peacefully with a mother and father still alive and an extended family who wanted to know him. As it is, he has an aunt who doesn’t know he exists and wouldn’t be pleased to know he killed her baby brother, no matter how estranged they were.

“…nor? Captain?” Faulkner snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Don’t look so blue, I got you a present. New hat, look. It’s got fancy lace on it and a blue rosette. The latest fashion, I can assure you.”

Connor takes the hat, and thanks Faulkner. He puts it on his head, feeling it’s expected, and the crew cheer. 

“Oh, actually…” the cook says. “I found a nice tailor in Barbados who made up a shirt for me. Doesn’t fit me, but it’ll probably look nice on you.”

“Speakin’ o’ shirts,” the ship’s doctor exclaims. “There was a man in one o’ the ports in Florida who had these brilliant waistcoats! They were pretty cheap, sir, so I got you one, too. Blue, to match yer uniform.”

Connor blinks, suprised, as one by one the crew pile a new uniform on the table in front of him, with terrible acting and even worse stories and excuses for having said items of clothing with them.

“We’d love to ‘ave you on board when you’re healed up nicely, sir,” one of the gunmen says, laying a new pistol holster on the pile.

Connor can do little more than grin and nod. It’s been a long time since he’s felt wanted, felt this happy.

* * *

 

“You need to eat more green vegetables!” Prudence scolds him. “I know you men are all about meat, but you ought to know better than to keep your larder in such a state!”

“I… I am very sorry…” Connor says, meekly. 

“You’re coming to dinner tonight, then, as an apology,” Prudence says. “I expect you at the farm at seven. We’re having fish.”

She bustles away before he can make an excuse not to go. She’s the third Davenport resident to come by today, many others have visited over the past week (starting with the day of his very awful Aquila-induced hangover). 

Half an hour later, Ellen comes by to measure him for a new winter coat, unasked. She refuses to take payment, at least not until the coat is finished. She assures him that, like Dave had insisted with his new weaponry and Doctor White had ordered with his herbal painkillers, she will have to stop by at least weekly to show him her progress and to catch up a little. She initially wants the fittings to be Tuesdays, but she relents when he explains that Tuesday nights are Bocce ball night with Terry and Godfrey.

* * *

 

Stephane and Jamie arrive one morning with two nervous recruits. 

“You’re better at this Assassin stuff than we are,” Jamie says. “Perhaps you could mentor them over the next few months.”

“Unfortunately I could only teach them how to cook. The rest they find difficult,” Stephane sighs. “You are a good teacher.”

Connor invites them in for tea, and eventually agrees to have them stay in one of the spare rooms upstairs, in return for helping him with keeping the house in order. He feels stronger, and he’s in less pain, but his movement is still restricted and there are only so many hours in the day, especially with the social life suddenly forced upon him.

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Connor says, the next time he sees Clipper. It’s a simple enough mission, just breaking into an empty house to steal some papers, but it’s more than Connor has been able to do in a very long time.

“For what?” Clipper stammers.

“You know what,” Connor says, firmly but kindly. 

Clipper gives him a small smile, and holds up the deed to a property in Maryland that the merchant they’re investigating ought not be able to afford. They suspect Templar ties, though it isn’t til they capture the man and interrogate him that those suspicions are proven correct.

* * *

 

Connor doesn’t think he’ll ever entirely get over Achilles’ death, or the death of his father for that matter. He still wakes in the middle of the night a sobbing mess, and he still forgets Achilles is dead when he plans missions and he still finds himself crying over Kanen’tó:kon’s hair pieces when he’s alone in the house. 

Despite that, he does feel better. 

He plans on going on a short voyage to Martha’s Vineyard in two week’s time, and he thinks the recruits living with him are almost skilled enough to be sent to Dobby, for her next mission in Philadelphia.

He glances out of the window, at the headstone on the little grassy verge.

Achilles would be proud.


End file.
